


Sever

by antietamfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Sophie's Choice, Suicidal Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antietamfalls/pseuds/antietamfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty forces Sherlock to choose between John and thousands of people he doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sever

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=122221407#t122221407) on the kink meme.
> 
> WARNING! This one is NOT like my other stuff! When I say 'major character death' I mean MAJOR character death. As in, potentially crippling emotional trauma. Read with caution.
> 
> [Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5787910) by RecklessGold

It was easy enough to spot Moriarty's men. The heels of their boots, their shirt collars, the way they stayed at least twenty yards behind Sherlock at all times. The abysmal attempts to watch his every movement with unnatural indifference. Their obscured glances from beneath brimmed caps came far too often and far too keenly for any other explanation.

Sherlock allowed himself to become cornered after observing the darkening bruise on the right-handed one's jaw line. The angle and force of the blow needed to create such a contusion, as well as the estimated time frame since its initial acquisition, suggested with extreme likelihood that it had come from John. The doctor had only been missing for eight hours, but it appeared Moriarty was impatient to bring Sherlock in, as well.

Sherlock at least bothered to text Lestrade before entering the secluded alleyway, if only to inform the obtuse detectives of Scotland Yard that they had been following an utterly useless lead for the better part of the afternoon.

The seizure and subsequent abduction was mediocre at best. Sherlock identified at least seven separate moments when he could have easily escaped. Doing so would prevent him from discovering John's location, however, so he put up with the incompetence. They soon arrived by car at a desolate industrial area.

After being relieved of his phone and anything else in his pockets, Sherlock was escorted to Moriarty by gunpoint. The consulting criminal had spared no expense in arranging for an obscene number of hired thugs to keep an eye on him.

Still, Moriarty kept his distance in the dim, cement-floored warehouse.

"Sherlock! I hadn't expected you so soon," he called melodically. The glint of glee in his eyes was difficult to ignore. "You're getting careless."

"Bored, actually. Thought I'd pop in," Sherlock replied from amidst his armed guards.

Moriarty's watched him with serpentine shrewdness. "Hmm, yes. Rather tiresome to be looking in all the wrong places, I imagine."

"No notes. No clues. No threats. Naturally, I surmised it was an invitation."

"You accepted with enthusiasm. I'm flattered."

Sherlock glanced around the dilapidated walls, taking in every detail. "I could recommend several significantly tidier locations for a reunion."

"Oh, I wouldn't have it," Moriarty scoffed dramatically. "I'm already hosting a guest, you see."

The crux of the encounter. It appeared Moriarty was going to force him to raise the issue. "Where's John?"

"That's not important, at the moment. More critical is your role here, Sherlock."

"My role?"

"You're here for a very special purpose."

"Another game?" Sherlock asked impassively.

"Surely you don't think me so predictable," Moriarty complained. His lips shifted into an obscene smile. "Not a game. A revelation."

"Don't be absurd."

His expression suddenly darkened. "If you want your pet returned, you'll play along." Moriarty warned with a dangerous tone.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I can challenge you a hundred times. I can win, I can lose. It's been a fascinating study, but there is little left to be gleaned. The time has come to advance our association."

"You wouldn't kill me yet," Sherlock argued. "You've not finished having your fun."

"Do you see? We understand one another," Moriarty said with unbalanced excitement. "That's rare, these days. A _gift_. Though I suppose you think the doctor understands you, as well."

"On occasion."

"Shall we find out?"

Moriarty quickly produced a tablet computer. On the screen was a grainy image of a large, brown paper parcel wrapped in wire. The wall behind it was centuries-old masonry. "Here is your conundrum, Sherlock. There are, at this time, over one hundred demolitions-grade bombs planted near several prominent London landmarks." He flicked through several camera feeds, each displaying a separate bomb. "Detonation will kill many tens of thousands of people."

"I hadn't realized you'd added domestic terrorism to your CV," Sherlock said dismissively.

"I dabble," Moriarty conceded with an arrogant tilt of his head. "Your task is to resolve this threat. I will shortly place you in a locked and sealed room. There is a phone inside with only one contact number. Don't bother trying to call anyone else. It won't work. Texting the word 'many' will instantly set off the bombs, sacrificing countless innocent lives. There is only one alternative to avoid this travesty: text the word 'one', and the doltish masses will be saved. But your dear Dr. Watson will die."

Sherlock frowned silently for several moments, carefully watching Moriarty. "Why?"

"Suddenly so serious, are we? To know, Sherlock. To put to rest the greatest mystery of all. Are we the same, you and I? Think of it as an imminent opportunity for self-discovery."

"You want me to demonstrate I am immune to sentimentality," Sherlock speculated. "That John is expendable to me."

"Do I? Is that what you think?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No. You're a far more hedonistic creature. Sentiment rules you, Moriarty, but only where your own personal interests are concerned. Games to satisfy your curiosity and prove your superiority. You would keep whom and whatever you wanted, consequences be damned. You expect me to choose him. Choose to cause thousands of deaths for my own selfish egotism."

Moriarty gave away nothing. "Interesting. An interesting theory, Sherlock."

"This is still a game, no matter what you call it. All games can be won."

"That depends on the definition of 'win', doesn't it? We'll soon find out yours. Everything is relative." Moriarty smirked. "You have one hour to decide, or both the public and the doctor will be annihilated."

The gun-toting thugs motioned toward a nearby door. Sherlock moved as requested, catching a last glimpse of Moriarty as a giddy expression crossed his face. He was enjoying this far too much.

The hallway was unevenly lit and rather shabby in its upkeep, but at last the armed men led him to an unremarkable steel door. One pulled it open and the other shoved Sherlock impolitely inside. The door was shut with a bang. There was no distinctive rattle of keys; rather, the unmistakable sharp and solid sound of a heavy electronic lock clicking into place.

"Sherlock!" he heard John say, an outburst drenched in relief.

Sherlock turned, and his cautiously assured mood fell by several degrees.

The room was a nearly-perfect concrete rectangle divided in two by a spaced row of metal bars. On the other side, John was seated facing him on a plain metal chair that was bolted to the floor. His arms were pulled uncomfortable behind him, obviously restrained in some way.  

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, stepping past the single piece of furniture on his side. It was a wooden stool, and upon it sat a basic flip phone.

"Yes," John answered, eyes searching Sherlock in return. He put on his best smile. "Can't say as much for the shopping..."

Sherlock glanced at every visible inch of the room. There was a similar door to Sherlock's own on John's side, but no visible means of passing through the metal barrier embedded in the cement. It was difficult to see everything, as the only light sources were two recessed circular ceiling lights, one above each of them. The walls seemed smooth and unbroken except for several small, dark nodes attached to various parts of the ceiling in both sides of the chamber. Cameras. A custom room like this would take weeks to prepare. Moriarty had thought long and hard about his plan. An uncomfortable tension formed in Sherlock's chest.

"What's happened?" John asked, clearly confused and uninformed as to their situation.

Sherlock ignored him, continuing the inspection. He picked up the phone on the stool. It was ordinary enough, and he tried entering several phone numbers before giving up. It was so heavily modified that it could no longer functionally make calls, only send text messages. A trained mechanical or electrical engineer could probably hack it, given enough time. As it stood, Sherlock's skill set was far too limited to alter it before the hour ran out. The time on the phone read 5:23.

He noticed finally that there was a shadowed object behind John. Sherlock rapidly moved to one side of the room, then the other, trying to make out the form in the darkness. It was a boxy structure with something on top. Lying low on the floor on the far right side of the room, he quickly found the correct angle to see the glint of metal and recognizable shape.

John strained to turn his head enough to see what Sherlock was looking at. "What is it? Is there something behind me?"

Sherlock stood and approached the bars. "Your Browning, John."

"Where is it pointed?"

"The back of your head."

A stillness overcame John. His eyes shifted minimally, seeking reassurance from Sherlock.

He had none to give. "Moriarty has informed me of a significant number of bombs placed around populated locations in London. He's prepared to detonate them at a moment's notice, and he's given me a choice. It's you, or them."

"Do you believe him?" John asked tonelessly. "Is it a credible threat?"

The evidence was unerring, and there was only one conclusion to be drawn. "Yes, John."

A short silence passed between them, until John's lack of movement began to concern Sherlock.

"Right," John nodded suddenly, a faraway look in his eyes. "Then it's me."

Sherlock raised a brow, stepping close enough to hold onto the solid bars. "Let's not be hasty, for the moment. We can work this out. We have an hour."

An alarming change was overcoming John. "It's got to be me," he said rapidly, staring straight at Sherlock with frantic eyes. "It's got to be me, Sherlock. You know it, and I know it. It's me, and that's all there is to it."

"No, there's a way around this," Sherlock reasoned firmly. "There must be a third option. There _must_."

John wasn't listening. His face was set with determination. "Do it. It'll be quick. I've seen it before," he said, voice rising with desperation. "Do it, Sherlock. Just get it over with."

"Stop it! Stop saying that!" Sherlock berated angrily.

"Do it... God, please, don't make this any harder than it needs to be," John implored. "I'm begging you, Sherlock. Before I lose my nerve, _just do it_!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled back. "Hold on, and let me _think_!"

John's head dropped down, chest heaving in attempt to stifle the fear so clearly coursing through him.

Sherlock turned quickly, once again taking in everything at their disposal. "Room, stool, phone, bars, chair, gun... windowless, external power source, metal, wood..."

He began a careful trip around his side of the room, pressing his ear to the wall and knocking every so often. The concrete was several feet thick at every point. There were no discernible thin spots, nor could he hear water pipes or other vulnerable installations.

Sherlock brought the stool to the wall, then clambered on and reached as high as he could. Unfortunately, he was unable to touch the high camera nodes. In retribution, Sherlock jumped off the stool and proceeded to lift and slam it hard against the floor, cracking the legs from the seat. He pulled it apart piece by piece, checking for anything that might be hidden in the joints or core of the wood. It was empty of anything useful.

The door was equally hopeless; it was obviously a new addition, with the pivoting barrels on the outside rather than inside. The electronic mechanism left no lock to pick.

The bars were firm and unmoving from every angle and height.

His ideas were running dry at that point. John's head was still down, although he seemed to have regained some measure of calm.

"John," Sherlock said, trying to get his attention. "I need your help."

John lifted his face, tear tracks shining in the overhead light. He took several deep breaths, meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Right. Right." He attempted to awkwardly wipe his face on his shirt with his shoulders. "What is it you always say? We need information. Tell me everything you know."

It required nearly fifteen minutes for Sherlock to recount all the details of the last eight hours, from the moment he noticed John was missing until entering the room they were currently in. John listened attentively, an intensely serious expression on his face. Sherlock imagined that this was how he often looked when he was in Afghanistan, dealing with life and death situations on a daily basis. He was in his element here. Far more than Sherlock, at least.

He glanced at the phone upon finishing. 5:48. "Are you handcuffed?"

"Yes," John said, tugging at the restraints behind his back.

"I can talk you through picking the lock, if you've got anything to use."

John grimly shook his head and laughed tersely. "Sorry, I left my burgling kit at home." He pulled harder and rattled the cuffs, but no progress was made.

Sherlock paced his half of the room, tossing the phone absently between his hands. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He raked his mind repeatedly, trying to find some new avenue to try.

He glanced at John a few times as he walked. The doctor was watching him carefully, but there was something conspicuously absent from his eyes. Optimism, Sherlock realized. John was simply waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to connect the dots and come to same conclusion he had reached almost instantly.

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, stopping and facing John. "No, there's got to be a way."

"You're being voluntarily idiotic, now," John said calmly. "Clearly, we're not leaving of our own accord. A choice needs to be made."

"I'm not going to kill you," he told him bluntly.

"You can't very well kill everyone else," John countered.

" _I'm not going to kill you_ ," Sherlock said again, with unequivocal certainty.

 John straightened in his seat, drawing his shoulders back. "But that's what you need to do. That's what I'm telling you to do."

"You know I never listen to you, John."

"Liar. You sodding _liar_ ," John growled.

Sherlock watched him, shifting side to side and gripping the bars. "You don't really want to die," he said softly.

"No, I don't. But there's something called the _greater good_ , Sherlock," John said angrily. "I don't think I could live with myself if so many others lost their lives in my place. Can you imagine that feeling? Can you imagine living with it?"

"I can't imagine living without _you_ ," he spat back.

John's expression fell, the antagonism fading. He looked resigned. "You got along fine before you ever met me."

If only John knew how completely, utterly wrong he was. Sherlock looked down at the phone, weighing it carefully in his hand.

"If you trigger those bombs, I will not forgive you," John said simply.

A spiteful rage boiled up in Sherlocks' chest and throat. He turned away, leaning against the bars and slumping down into a folded squat on the floor.

"Sherlock, don't ignore me," John called. He sighed audibly.

That was exactly what Sherlock intended to do. John wasn't going to be a help, here. He was set in his opinion and there would be no changing it. He wanted Sherlock to kill him, and that was that.

It was unthinkable. Unconscionable.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

What would that mean, if he chose to save John? Were they the same in that case, him and Moriarty? John would be irreversibly disappointed in him. And somehow, that seemed worse than verifying Moriarty's twisted presumption.

Think. _Think_.

From the most basic logical standpoint, weighing the lives of thousands against John was inescapably simple. The sheer weight of human productivity and innovation that would be lost from society was monumental. The world would be better off if they were preserved.

John was not important, in the grand scheme.

But, all the same, he was. So very important.

The impersonal versus the personal. This was why Sherlock preferred to not care about those directly affected by his actions. It complicated what should be a clean and simple equation.

Sherlock sat and mulled for as long as he dared, refusing to make that final, fateful decision.

He checked the phone periodically, until it read 6:12 and the lateness of the hour grew too disconcerting. They had mere minutes left.

Sherlock turned to look at John. His face was solemn and introspective. He was waiting. Patiently.

He stood, and John broke his thoughts to look at him.

"I'm not going to kill you," Sherlock said petulantly.

"You could have detonated those bombs at any point, against my will," John pointed out. "Between the two of us you have the power, Sherlock. You have the control."

"I don't care about those people."

"You didn't kill them, though, despite that. You haven't done it because I don't want you to. Isn't that right?"

He watched John, not responding.

"It is. Concern for how I feel. At the same time, you keep saying you won't kill me. You're defending against the only other option available. You're at an impasse and logic can't help you overcome it."

John was correct, and Sherlock was at a loss. There was no way to resolve this without sacrificing something. What was more important? John's existence or his trust?

John nodded slowly, resolution in his eyes. "Fortunately, you're not alone. Sherlock, look at the gun."

He did. It was as threatening as ever, aimed straight at his best friend's head.

"That gun... saved me," John said. "More times than I can count. It's killed terrorists, and bombers, and dangerous men with nothing but hatred in their hearts. It helped me preserve your life, and by extension my own sanity. If I had never met you, if that gun hadn't provided the fatal round on our first night together and kept you in my life, I would have used it long ago to end it all."

"John..."

"It's saved me, and now it can save you, as well. You're not equipped to make this choice, so I'm taking it out of your hands."

John drew a deep breath, then closed his eyes. He pulled his right arm up as high as it would go, then kept on pulling. Sherlock watched in shock as John's face grew redder with concentrated effort, a pained scowl contorting his features. He heard the first pop of breaking bone with unmistaken clarity, flinching when John shouted abruptly. John continued his efforts, and by the time his right hand was completely free of the cuffs he was panting hard and leaking tears without abandon.

He stood from the chair, loose handcuff clanking loudly where it dangled from his left wrist. John's right hand was turning a deep red from the countless broken and displaced bones under the skin. He wiped at his face with his good hand.

"Learned that from a marine on leave in Kandahar," John said with a shaky voice. "It was a good laugh, at the time."

"Hilarious," Sherlock said dully.

John moved to where the gun was fixed. He examined it closely. There was an remote-controlled mechanism surrounding the trigger. It would only go off with a signal from the phone. 

"You're doing this to save them?" Sherlock asked.

John's conviction was steady. "No, I'm doing this to save you."

A strange desperation overtook him. Sherlock flipped open the phone, holding it menacingly between his hands. He quickly typed out M-A-N-Y and hovered a thumb over the Send button, glancing up at John. "I won't let you."

John left the gun's side, walking cautiously closer to the bars.

"Give me the phone," John ordered, holding out his uninjured hand.

Sherlock tensed, unsure what to do.

"I don't want you to be the one to do this," John said, quieter. "Please."

"John," Sherlock pleaded.

"This is the third option. This is how we win."

"It doesn't feel like winning."

"If you trust and respect me enough to make this decision, then I call it a victory. Moriarty isn't capable of giving up that sort of power to another person."

He glanced at the time. 6:19. It was now or never.

This was the choice. The true choice. The only one that mattered.

Sherlock slowly placed the phone in John's outstretched hand, clasping it in the effort. He pulled back with a lingering touch.

"You're not Moriarty," John said. "Do you hear me? Remember it."

John set the phone on his chair. He pulled the Browning off the stand, checking its magazine and the device around the trigger. He frowned, then went back to retrieve the phone. He deleted what Sherlock had typed, then punched in three single letters. Sherlock knew what they were: O-N-E.

"One last favor. Don't look," John said stoically.

He wanted to watch. It was the least bit of penance he could pay for allowing John to do this.

"Don't look. Sherlock, please," John repeated. "For me."

"I've been privileged to call you my friend, John," Sherlock said suddenly. "I should have told you that long ago."

There was a brief pause. "You did," John answered with a weak smile. "In the ways that were important, you always did."

There was nothing else to say. Everything he could possibly say, John already knew. With a final glance, Sherlock turned and lowered himself to the floor. The cold bars pressed into his back.

He thought he was ready. He'd experienced so many terrible things, before this.

But, as the seconds ticked by and he dwelled upon what was about to happen, the weight and consequences came crashing into focus. A world without John. He would be alone again. Only this time, he would know what he was missing.

An uncontrollable horror overtook him. Sherlock ducked his face into his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around his head, covering his ears as forcefully as possible. It didn't block out the reverberating pop of the gunshot, nor the heavy sound of something collapsing onto the ground.

Oh God. Don't look.

He gripped tighter, forcing himself to stay in this position. He wanted to leap up and go to John, force his way through the bars and erase the unimaginable scene behind him. Don't look.

His breathing sped uncontrollably. Oh God. Don't look. John was gone, wasn't he? How could he be gone? Don't look.

Don't look, don't look, don't look. _Don't look,_ Mummy said as the doctor injected him with a vaccination. _Don't look_ , Mycroft said during graphic moments in the cinema. But he always looked. It was his nature to look at the worst of humanity. To study and accept, to make it a part of himself and grow resistant to the imagery.

Don't look. John said don't look. Don't look, don't look.

Schrödinger's cat. John was both alive and dead until someone directly observed him. A paradox. A rhetorical half-existence, but it was as close to life as John could come right now. Looking would destroy what little he had. Don't look.

His eyes remained straight ahead, staring into the fabric of his trousers. Don't look.

Don't look. He sat for minutes, hours, days, repeating it. Don't look. Don't look. That was what John wanted, and it was the least he owed him. Don't look.

He barely registered the door being forced open. The strangers who entered the room. The chilly air from the hallway, sucking away the warmth that remained.

Someone shook him. Don't look. The shaking continued. Sherlock finally glanced up, an officer from Scotland Yard staring back. The officer called toward the door, and after a moment a familiar figure stepped into the room.

"Christ," Lestrade breathed, wide eyes fixed behind Sherlock. His face quickly drained of color. He looked down at Sherlock, shocked.

Seeing solid, living humans before him grounded Sherlock to the reality of the situation. John was gone. Moriarty was responsible. There was only one thing to be done.

" _Where. Is. He_?" Sherlock asked where he sat, emitting a pure frothing rage.

"Moriarty?" A hint of terror surfaced in Lestrade's face when he saw Sherlock's expression. "He's not here."

Sherlock rose in one smooth movement. He strode toward the aggravatingly open door. He was no longer tempted to look back.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said, blocking his path. "Jesus, what happened here?"

John had believed in him. He had misjudged, though.

His compass, his barometer, his guide, was gone. Sherlock was capable of everything that Moriarty could do. Everything and more. He held the capacity before, but now he also had the motivation. There was nothing to stop him. Moriarty's life would end in unimaginable pain.

Sherlock stopped only long enough to glance at Lestrade.

"I chose wrong."


End file.
